


Intermission

by rageprufrock



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I really think if I go back, I might kill somebody," John said desperately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermission

When Rodney had driven into town saying, "Vegas," John said, "Awesome! Craps!" and then Rodney had said, "Awesome: Celine Dion."

It was too late to escape since John was already in the car and Rodney was already merging onto the highway, but it wasn't like he didn't make a good go of it anyway. Celine Dion made John think about being trapped in a mall during the holiday shopping rush, CDs with covers involving clouds and angels and babies, that young lieutenant he'd met in Iraq who'd talked effusively about seeing Celine and Cher the same weekend in Vegas.

"Rodney, I can't go see Celine Dion," John tried to argue reasonably after Rodney explained he'd futzed with the wiring in the car and made the passenger door childproof, too. "Which is why you can't throw yourself into moving traffic," Rodney had explained serenely.

"Why not?" Rodney demanded, eyes on the prize and solidly focused on the road. There were spots of red on his cheeks he was so excited. "She's amazing."

"I can't be seen at a fucking Celine Dion concert!" John snapped, and taking a deep breath, tried again: "How about if you go to the concert and I play craps."

"What do you mean you can't be seen at a Celine concert?" Rodney glared at him from the corner of his eyes.

"Oh God," John moaned miserably. "Don't just call her Celine -- it's worse, somehow."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Look, Colonel, nobody is going to think you're gay because I got us the most amazing tickets in all of Las Vegas for the most amazing show in Las Vegas -- you can play craps some other time. This weekend is music appreciation."

"Celine is not amazing!" John shouted. "Stop using that word!"

Rodney started humming something, which John feared was probably a Celine song.

"I'm sorry you went to all the trouble," John said through gritted teeth, "but I'm not going to see Celine Dion with you."

*

Halfway through the second set at the concert, John was really worried Rodney was going to start crying.

"I thought you liked her!" he shouted over the din, trying not to notice the heaving mass of middle aged women and almost farcically gay men around him, all in some sort of manic group seizure.

"This is just so amazing," Rodney shouted back, still looking teary.

"What do any of these songs even mean," John asked desperately, starting to feel a little feral. "None of these lyrics even make sense."

Rodney stared at John like he was slower than he felt John usually was, and putting a hand on John's shoulder said, "They're songs from her heart, Colonel. Try to remember that."

On stage, Celine reemerged, wearing luminous butterfly wings and silver foot-long eyelashes, faux glitter showering down on the stage and capturing the light. "This is a song," she said into her tiny mic, looking meaningfully out at her suddenly-hushed audience, "called Little Wing--it's about letting go. And elevating yourself past that."

"Oh my God!" Rodney yelled as the crowd went nuts, "I love this song!"

"I'm going to kill you," John snarled, close to Rodney's ear. "I'm seriously, seriously going to kill you."

John just couldn't get over it: he was 39 years old and being bullied by a pudgy astrophysicist into listening to a deranged singing butterfly in Las Vegas, where slot machines and Blackjack tables and roulette and dozens of other intriguing games of independent chance were just a few hundred yards away. This was worse than the day he couldn't figure out what to name their latest Wraith.

"You're buying me a hooker, McKay!" John decided.

Rodney's eyes went round in horror, right in the middle of his second favoritest song ever. "What! No! What?" he shouted.

"A good one!" John snapped. "Amazing tits!" he said.

"Do you know how much these tickets cost?" Rodney demanded.

"Would you two shut up!" a woman the next seat over said, looking watery-eyed. "This was the song that nursed me through my first big break-up."

Rodney turned around and took her hand. "Oh God. Me, too."

John slumped down in his seat and covered his face with the program, praying that not too much of the glitter would transfer to his skin.

*

The concert was four hours long.

The second hour, John had told Rodney he'd spontaneously developed kidney stones and ran off to the bathroom for what he promised would be hours passing them in agony.

He ended up sitting around for 20 minutes with a small band of disgruntled significant others and snuck out the back door with two of them to smoke cigarettes and bitch about relationships.

"She made me pay for this," Ryan said. He was a realtor from Florida, beachside properties near killer breakers, which John had found himself helplessly fascinated by.

"It's your own fault you got suckered in," Harry muttered. "At least John and I had it sprung on us."

"I really think if I go back in I might kill somebody," John said desperately.

And then apparently it was intermission, because the staff door busted open and revealed one extraordinarily pissed off Rodney McKay, flanked by a guy wearing a silvery-purple shirt and a woman in a cat sweater.

"Nice kidney stone," Rodney sneered.

"It's taking some time," John lied, trying to hide his half-smoked cigarette behind his back without burning a hole into his pants. "Ow. Really, ow."

Rodney narrowed his eyes suspiciously and sniffed the air for just a second before he shrieked, "Oh my God--you're smoking, too?" and reaching over to grab John's arm, shaking it furiously until John dropped his cigarette. "You're coming back in here before those two bad influences get you hooked on crystal meth and leather prostitutes!"

"Hey," Ryan said feelingly.

The woman in the cat sweater grabbed him Harry by the collar and said, "You're better off keeping your silence. Get back here."

Purple shirt rolled his eyes and reached out for Ryan, sounding bemused and saying, "Aren't you glad I'm not one of the hyper ones?"

"I don't wanna go back!" John shouted. "I'll win you a fortune at Blackjack!"

"Do I look like I need money?" Rodney scoffed. "No. And besides, you'll get caught counting cards in 12 seconds and get your face beaten in by casino security."

And what was how John ended up seeing the second half of the Celine Dion concert, too.

At the end of the last set, when she was doing an encore of, "It's all because of you," John said out loud, "You know, this isn't that bad."

Rodney looked momentarily alarmed. "What?" he asked. "What did you say?"

*

They were about an hour out of Vegas when Rodney finally reached critical mass on freaking out.

"Okay so you liked the concert," he asked tersely.

John shrugged and felt slightly concerned about the vein he could see throbbing on the side of Rodney's neck. "It wasn't that bad. I could have done without the costumes."

"But the songs," Rodney said maniacally. "You liked the songs?"

"Well," John said politely. "She's not Johnny Cash or anything, but she's got a set of pipes on her."

Rodney looked like he was in serious pain. "What is wrong with you! You nearly had a seizure when I first made you sit down!"

"I didn't say she's not overrated," John said defensively, feeling heat creep up his cheeks. "I just said she wasn't awful."

"Oh my God," Rodney said, mortified. "You liked her. You totally liked her. You musical slut."

John reflected that he'd accepted he would never really understand a conversation with McKay years ago, but it always gave him a little bit of whiplash to see how quickly the tables could turn and Rodney could go from wailing and whining to combative and bitchy.

He thought about saying, "I am not," but figured that might sound a little 14 years old, and he was already +1 in the gay column today for going to that concert.

John decided to take the high road and put on his shades instead, slouching deeper into the chair to nap and say, "Whatever."

*

It's a few weeks later -- after stealing a puddlejumper and half blowing up Atlantis in their attempts to get it back and getting fired (twice) by two separate generals -- that John celebrates his perforated eardrum healing by putting his iPod on shuffle.

John spreads out on the south pier, stripping out of his t-shirt and uniform pants until he's down to his civvies on a big military issue towel.

The sun feels amazing on his skin after all those weeks trapped in an underground cement hell of paperwork and sprained ankles, and John puts his hands behind his head and lets himself drift off --

Until he hears angry noises over the sound of -- wow, how embarrassing and apropos is this, he thinks -- something he'd pulled off of Celine's latest album and opens his eyes to see Rodney -- his head haloed and backlit by the Atlantean sun, shrieking about sunscreen and skin cancer.

It's weird, John thinks, letting Rodney manhandle him back under the safety of an awning, snarling about melanoma and military idiocy the entire time, but it takes until right now for him to think that finally, finally he's home again.


End file.
